


my body's made of crushed little stars

by godhateslev



Category: Super Dangan Ronpa 2
Genre: Birthday Fluff, Canonical Character Death, F/F, Femslash, Fluff, Getting Together, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Minor Hinata Hajime/Komaeda Nagito, Poetry, Post-Canon, Stars
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-09
Updated: 2021-03-09
Packaged: 2021-03-15 22:14:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,972
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29940189
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/godhateslev/pseuds/godhateslev
Summary: Mahiru is the only thing Hiyoko wants to live for. Hiyoko wakes up to see her, to stare at her freckles and glassy grey-green eyes. Hiyoko’s stomach hurts when she looks at her, because she is so perfect and just barely out of reach.***in which hiyoko saionji tries to write a poem for the girl she really likes
Relationships: Koizumi Mahiru/Saionji Hiyoko
Comments: 2
Kudos: 15





	my body's made of crushed little stars

**Author's Note:**

> happy birthday hiyoko!!!

***

The stars are bright here. Much brighter than they were in the city, anyways. Sometimes, when she looks out over the ocean, Hiyoko can pretend she lives in another world. In a way, she does.

Hiyoko dips her toes into the water, grimacing when a stray piece of seaweed brushes past her foot. Hiyoko adds ‘seaweed’ to the ever-growing list of things she hates, stepping back onto the beach. Her feet are bare, sinking into the wet sand.

There are plenty of things to hate, Hiyoko thinks, and not nearly enough things to love.

Hiyoko hates mean girls, tacks in her shoes, and rats in her bed. She hates creepy old men, thunderstorms and cockroaches. She hates the smell of gasoline and alcohol. She hates half-melted ice cream and phone chargers that only work at a certain angle. Pillows that are warm on both sides, crumbs in her bed, stains on her kimono, and blisters on her hands.

Hiyoko loves some things, too, though. She loves the smell of clean laundry and fresh-cut lemons. She loves stories about witches and wizards, especially when someone else is reciting them to her. She loves gummy bears and Pixie sticks, polaroid cameras and lullabies. Most of all, she loves Mahiru.

“I hate it here, Mahiru.” She says out loud, and Mahiru laughs. She holds Hiyoko’s hand in hers, and lets Hiyoko put her head on her shoulder.

Mahiru is on the beach with her, at three AM on a Monday. She’s not even annoyed that Hiyoko woke her up for such a thing.

 _“It’ll be a good time to photograph the water,”_ Mahiru had said. Hiyoko hates how patient she is.

Mahiru is holding a book on her lap. Hiyoko tilts her head.

“What are you reading?”

“Poetry.” Mahiru responds.

Hiyoko doesn’t get poetry-- it’s wordy and doesn’t make sense. It frustrates her to try and read it sometimes, but Mahiru always explains. Mahiru opens the book, the pages fluttering softly in the wind. She clears her throat.

_“Have you got a brook in your little heart,_

_Where bashful flowers blow,_

_And blushing birds go down to drink,_

_And shadows tremble so?”_

Mahiru’s voice is like a songbird. Hiyoko doesn’t quite understand the poetry, but she likes hearing Mahiru talk.

_“And nobody, knows, so still it flows,_ _That any brook is there;_ _And yet your little draught of life_ _Is daily drunken there.”_

Mahiru smiles a lot. Hiyoko thinks that she’ll have wrinkles if she keeps that up, but Mahiru says she doesn’t care. Mahiru has dimples when she smiles.

_“Then look out for the little brook in March,_ _When the rivers overflow,_ _And the snows come hurrying from the hills,_ _And the bridges often go.”_

Mahiru is very kind. She forgives Peko for killing her in the simulation, something Hiyoko could never do. She bakes strawberry muffins for everyone in the mornings, and she even delivers them to people like Nagito. Mahiru is learning to paint, and even play the guitar. She has a beautiful singing voice, and it makes Hiyoko’s heart hurt whenever she plays.

_“And later, in August it may be,_ _When the meadows parching lie,_ _Beware, lest this little brook of life_ _Some burning noon go dry.”_ Mahiru closes the book and smiles. “What did you think?” She asks. “I don’t really get it…” Hiyoko admits, pouting. Mahiru smiles kindly. “But it sounds pretty when you say it.” “It’s my favorite. _“Have You Got a Brook in Your Little Heart,”_ by Emily Dickinson.” Mahiru pets Hiyoko’s hair, pushing her bangs out of her eyes. Hiyoko holds Mahiru’s hand as it cups her face. Mahiru smiles down at her. “It’s kind of what I want to do when I take my pictures-- I want people to see my work and just get it.”Hiyoko nods. She wishes she knew that feeling. She wishes she was passionate about dancing, wishes it made her happy like how photography does for Mahiru. ***Mahiru is unobtainable. She is strawberries on a summer day, hot tea and poems of love. She is a songbird, reciting poetry on the beach. Mahiru is honeycomb, sweet and raw and beautiful. She is sunlight and sparkling lemonade, new books and woven baskets. Hiyoko is a mess. She is rude and cold and unlovable. She is an empty husk of a girl, of a woman. She doesn’t recognize herself in the mirror some days, she is tall and hollow. Mahiru is the only thing Hiyoko wants to live for. Hiyoko wakes up to see her, to stare at her freckles and glassy grey-green eyes. Hiyoko’s stomach hurts when she looks at her, because she is so perfect and just barely out of reach. Hiyoko cries, slamming her fist against her bathroom window. Almost everyone does it now, when their reflection is beyond recognition on a good day, and all too recognizable on a bad one. Nagito has no mirror- he kept hurting himself with it, so Hajime took it away. Hiyoko thinks maybe he had the right idea, but she’s even too weak to break the glass. She glares at her reflection. The girl in the mirror is not her. The girl has dark circles under her eyes, and her neck is covered in scars. None of which are a slit to the throat, ironically. She sometimes misses being dead. ***Hiyoko rips another paper into pieces, groaning as the scraps fall gently to the ground. Her writing is all but graceful, ink spilling over the pages. The poems she hears from Mahiru work-- they’re descriptive and heart-wrenching, and even if she doesn’t understand them, she feels something when she hears them. Hiyoko’s own poems feel like nothing. Hiyoko feels like nothing.Hiyoko wants her poem to be lovely. She wants Mahiru to read it and smile, to see the image of their perfect life together that Hiyoko wants so badly to explain. But camelias and fresh-baked milk bread end up sounding bitter when Hiyoko can’t write like Emily Dickinson. ***Mahiru sits with Hiyoko in her cottage. Hiyoko loves Mahiru’s cottage, because there are pictures all over the walls and books stacked on the shelves and you can just tell it belongs to her. Like the cottage is a piece of Mahiru herself, fragmented and preserved forever in this room. Mahiru clears her throat, opening a book. She clicks her tongue, unfolding the dog-eared page. The book looks well-worn, but not in a sad way. It looks loved.

_“Like the sweet-apple reddening high on the branch,  
High on the highest, the apple-pickers forgot,  
Or not forgotten, but one they couldn’t reach…”_

The poem Mahiru reads is only one sentence long. Three lines of text, and yet Hiyoko understands it. Mahiru gives her a knowing smile as she sits up.

“Pretty, right?” Mahiru says, and Hiyoko nods.

“It’s… sad.”

“Sappho.” She says, showing Hiyoko the cover of the book. “Fragments on Love and Desire.”

“Do you have more?” Hiyoko asks, biting her thumb nail. Mahiru nods and turns the page. Her sugary-sweet voice floods Hiyoko’s mind.

_“The stars around the beautiful moon  
Hiding their glittering forms  
Whenever she shines full on earth…  
Silver…”_

Hiyoko listens quietly, closing her eyes. Mahiru goes through several poems, reading them out loud for what is certainly not the first time.

For once, Hiyoko doesn’t make a remark.

***

“I can’t do this.” Hiyoko says. She doesn’t have many options, but confiding in Hajime, of all people, is a new low.

“Can’t do what?” Hajime asks, sipping his coffee.

“I want to write Mahiru a poem, but I can’t.” She rests her head in her hands. “I need your help.”

“Me?”

“Not you, him.” Hiyoko groans, pointing at his forehead. “Big guy with the talents? He’s gotta have a poet in there somewhere.”

“He’s busy right now. If you really want, I can try and help.”

Hiyoko pouts.

“Fine, whatever.”

“What’s the problem, then?”

“I already told you, dumbass! I want to write Mahiru a poem, but I’m no good at it.” She sighs. “I can’t write like Sappho and Emily Dickinson and all those people that she likes.”

“That’s because you’re not them. Why don’t you try writing like Hiyoko Saionji, for a change?”

“Because Hiyoko Saionji isn’t a writer. She’s a dancer, and that’s it.” Hiyoko stares at her feet.

“Well, I disagree. Hiyoko is a good friend, even if she can be prickly. She’s diligent, she’s smart, and she cares a lot about her friends. She knows that she isn’t a writer, but she still wants to write a poem to try and make her friend happy.”

Hiyoko purses her lips and stares at Hajime.

“How am I supposed to be more than my talent, if that’s the only thing I’ve ever been good for?” She whispers.

“Christ, Saionji, you sound like Nags.”

“Nags?” Hiyoko lets out a laugh, and Hajime goes beet-red.

“Komaeda. You sound like Komaeda.” Hajime corrects himself, clearing his throat.

Hiyoko wants to keep nagging him, because wow has she got new material, but she has better things to do, she decides.

“Thanks, Hinata.” Hiyoko huffs. “But I’m still going to make fun of you later.”

***

Hiyoko tries her hand at writing her own poem. It’s far from perfect- the words don’t flow in the way she wants them to and there’s no real rhyme scheme. Still, it’s good enough.

Mahiru is Hiyoko’s best friend. Mahiru is honestly Hiyoko’s first and only friend, and she really doesn’t want to mess this up. So Hiyoko puts up with the gross little pervert chef to make her strawberry muffins. They aren’t the same as when Mahiru makes them, but they’re good enough.

It seems like that’s a constant. The poem is good enough, the muffins are good enough. Hiyoko isn’t perfect, but she’s good enough.

Mahiru likes the poem. Mahiru likes Hiyoko. Loves her, even.

***

“I had a dream we got married.” Mahiru says, kissing Hiyoko’s forehead as they cuddle under Mahiru’s silk bedsheets. Hiyoko’s hair is let down, flowing over the pillows.

“Bleh, marriage is dumb anyways.” Hiyoko responds, snuggling into her chest. Mahiru smiles and pets her hair.

“Is it?”

“Yeah, I think. What’s even the point of getting married? It’s just more complications.” Hiyoko pouts, and Mahiru giggles softly.

“I suppose.” She sits up to push open her cottage window, the cold wind blowing on both of their faces. The stars twinkle in the sky, and Hiyoko stares up at them.

“It looks like someone put glitter on one of those shiny plastic tablecloths.” Hiyoko remarks.

“That was poetic.” Mahiru laughs, and Hiyoko pushes her softly. They both smile. “Really, though.”

“Sometimes I want to reach out and grab them. Put ‘em in a little jar or something, so they light up the room.”

“Like fireflies.”

“Eh, I hate those things. They’re fun to squish, though.” Hiyoko mimics a squelching sound, and Mahiru laughs. “The glow-y stuff goes everywhere.”

“Gross, Hiyoko.” Mahiru rolls her eyes, but Hiyoko knows she isn’t upset. Hiyoko stares at the freckles on her nose-- they look kind of like stars. She can see constellations in them as she traces her fingers over the dots.

Mahiru is obtainable. Mahiru is not perfect in the slightest, but that doesn’t change anything. She is, and always will be sunlight and sparkling lemonade; new books and woven baskets.

Hiyoko is not perfect, either. But Hiyoko isn’t all rotting teeth and crude remarks. Mahiru says Hiyoko is something, too, and Hiyoko is inclined to believe her. Hiyoko is a rose bush, vanilla extract and bumblebees. She’s a hummingbird, and the nectar it drinks in the early morning. Hiyoko is a shallow pond of lily pads and tadpoles. Hiyoko is light rain on a sunny day, puddles on the sidewalk. She’s polaroid pictures and scrapbooks, oil paint and a jar of island stars.

***

**Author's Note:**

> btw// i finally made a carrd if you wanna check it out: levscorner.carrd.co
> 
> title: my body's made of crushed little stars by mitski
> 
> poetry: mahiru seems like someone who would enjoy reading poetry. 
> 
> emily dickinson: Emily Dickinson, (December 10, 1830–May 15, 1886) was an American poet and possible lesbian or bisexual (https://lgbt.wikia.org/wiki/Emily_Dickinson)
> 
> sappho: Sappho's poems usually focus on the relationships among women. Sappho is known for her lyric poetry, written to be sung while accompanied by a lyre. 
> 
> happy women's month!!!
> 
> -lev


End file.
